More Than One Kind of Freedom
by Rachel Greenwood
Summary: A short story about Ruth that touches on her reaction to her husband's death and the motivations behind her choices. I've always thought she deserved more backstory. Complete


_Spring 1910_

It was over.

Ruth closed the door to the library, careful, as always, to move silently. The soft rustle of her dress was the only sound as she sank into the nearest chair. The dull ache behind her eyes began to recede; for the first time in years she could focus her gaze. She breathed slowly, enjoying the sound of the silence. There were so many things to do, people to write, arrangements to make, but it could all wait. This was her moment, and she was going to make it last. It was twenty-five years in the making, after all.

"Ma'am?" The maids peered up at her with concerned eyes. "Ma'am are you alright?" She smiled to herself as they struggled to find the correct way to address her. _They think I've gone insane,_ she thought. "You have visitors, ma'am. They're waiting in the front sitting room." She just nodded and dismissed them with a wave. There was plenty of time to greet the gossiping vultures she called friends, plenty of time to console the cousins who "would have come sooner if only there had been enough money…", the cousins who always found a way into her husband's purse, whose backs, though bent upon arrival were easily made straight again by a handful of bills. Yes, there was plenty of time to deal with them all. Or perhaps, she realized, there wouldn't be. Perhaps she would simply forget the cousins, the spinster nieces, the nephews who failed, the sisters who begged on their children's behalf, conveniently forgetting how their own willfulness brought their families to such a shameful state.

Ruth smoothed her hair. It was still as red as the day she was born. She paused, studying her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were still bright even if the spaces beneath them were a bit hollow. No matter. It wasn't anything a few dabs of powder couldn't remedy. Her lips were thin and pale, but she could do something about the paleness. As for everything else, well, all was as it should be.

It didn't matter anyway. She wouldn't be marrying again. There was no need, and if there was no need, why bother? Her breath caught in her throat as she began down the stairs. Perhaps there had once been a reason to marry that wasn't connected to necessity, but there was no use thinking about it. She straightened her back. No use at all remembering people best left forgotten; it would have been better if she had never even known him. It was his fault she had been so unhappy. Lucas, with his talk of "someday", with his empty dreams, making her believe there was something wrong with her. He mocked everything she held dear. "It's all meaningless," he had said. "Don't you see?"

"It isn't," she insisted. "You can't understand."

"I understand you care more about what other people think than you do about being happy," he said.

She turned away, fighting back angry tears. "You don't understand," she said. "You can't possibly understand."

"Tell me," he said, taking her gently by the shoulders. "Explain it. What don't I understand? That you can't bear the thought of being without wealth? That the prospect of a few years of working our way up is so unbearable you'd rather betray your own heart?"

She avoided his eyes. "Ruth, tell me what I don't understand," he pressed. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"I can't," she said shakily. "I can't say you're wrong, but—" Her voice became stronger. "—You insult me by thinking so little of me. Do you truly believe I wouldn't marry you if I thought I could?"

"But you can—"

"No! I can't! It would be a disaster." She touched his face. "Whatever love we have for each other would be ground down by poverty and want until we couldn't stand the sight of each other. Lucas, if I married you I would hate you before the first year was over. Don't shake your head. You know it's true. You would see what a vain, silly, useless girl I really am, and you would despise me for it."

"How can you paint so bleak a picture?" he asked, dumbfounded. "Do you not have any hope, any faith that—"

"No," she said firmly. "I may not know the world as you do, but I know it well enough to say any continuance of our intimacy would be a mistake. It would ruin any chance of happiness either of us has."

Ruth paused, her hand on the sitting room door. She heard voices coming from inside. The sisters had already arrived, and from the sound of things they had brought their ill-conceived progeny with them. _He's barely been dead two hours, and already they've come to see what they can get._ She arranged her features into the perfect mask of dignified grief and opened the door _. I wonder how they will react to going home empty handed for once?_

But in the end it was she who went empty-handed. Ruth couldn't help but laugh at the irony. If only Lucas could see me now, she thought as the lawyer droned on about the list of people who must be paid. An old heaviness settled upon her head. A lump formed in her throat. _I was free!_ she screamed silently. _I survived him!_ Angry tears filled her eyes.

"You're wrong," Lucas had insisted. "We could be happy together."

"Perhaps we would be," she said. "Perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps I'll look back on this moment and regret refusing you, but I doubt that will happen." She continued, ignoring the hurt look in his eyes. "It doesn't matter how much I love you. What matters is how much I want out of life, and no amount of love, on its own, can give that."

"You're a fool," he said angrily. "You'd give up a man you love, who loves you, for silver candlesticks and silk dresses."

She shook her head sadly. "It's more than that," she said. "It's freedom."

He was aghast. "It's enslavement to fashion and decorum and public opinion!"

"It's freedom from worry, from hunger, from dying wretched in the gutter!" she cried. "Can't you understand—there is more than one way to be free—"

"But at what cost?" he asked. "At what cost, Ruth?"

She collapsed into a chair. The house was finally empty. The lawyers were gone. The mourners had stopped coming once they discovered there was no money to be had. They didn't know anything for sure, of course, but she knew it was only a matter of time. The whispers had already begun. The story would infect her own circle soon enough, and then the pity in her friends' eyes would be genuine.

She didn't even have a right to the chair she was sitting in. Everything she owned would have to be sold to pay Arthur's debts. They would all discuss it over dinner, shaking their heads about what had befallen "poor Ruth and her daughter." Ruth sighed. If only Rose had been a son instead. A son would have been able to set things right. A son could have gone into the world and restored their soon to be ruined name. But no, all she had was a daughter who would have no prospects once word got out. Rose was an accomplished, beautiful girl, but it would all be wasted on a man who could never appreciate her gifts, a man who would make a drudge of her before the first year was over. Better that she never marry at all.

Ruth turned her head at the sound of voices. "This note came for you, Miss," she heard a maid say.

"Who can it be from?" Rose wondered. She turned the small envelope over in her hands. "There isn't a name on the front."

"One of Mr. Hockley's men delivered it, Miss."

Rose frowned. "Mr. Hockley? Whatever could he want?"

Ruth sat up, suddenly revived. Perhaps there was a way out after all.

 _April 14, 1912_

Ruth had been right. All it had taken was Rose agreeing to marry him. He hadn't even needed any encouragement, which was fortunate since Rose never felt compelled to even smile in his direction. It was as if she didn't understand the gravity of their situation, or, as Ruth feared was more likely, she just didn't care.

Things were fine until that boy appeared. That boy with his smiles and his stories, making life out to be an endless grand adventure, he had turned Rose's head. He made her forget what was important. He made her think love alone was enough, and she was a fool for believing him. He wouldn't stay with her. He would be gone the moment she began to lose her looks, which wouldn't take long. Ignominy, like that which follows the bearing of bastards, does not keep a woman beautiful.

Ruth didn't let herself consider the possibility that they might not survive. Imagining Rose miserable would always be preferable to believing her dead. Of course, this didn't mean her own life was at an end. Cal would provide for her. It was the proper thing to do. She needn't worry about anything anymore; she was finally free.

But at what cost?


End file.
